


Under Your Skin Feels Like Home

by Verisimilitude



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Kink Meme, M/M, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verisimilitude/pseuds/Verisimilitude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taken from <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12432.html?thread=64620688#t64620688">this prompt</a> at the Sherlock Kink Meme.</p>
<p>
  <i>I want naked Mycroft with a plug up his ass rocking gently back against his partner's clothed thigh (preferably John or Lestrade but WOULD NOT SAY NO TO SHERLOCK, JUST SAYIN') it's sweet and soft at first, and he makes the most exquisite noises and he blushes prettily while they trade kisses but after a while it's not enough and he needs to rock harder and pretty soon he's grinding himself down on his partner's thigh so hard and he's almost there and oh god oh god sexy porny times, am I right?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Anyway.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Mycroft fucking himself on someone's thigh, going from slightly embarrassed sexy gentleman to shameless sexy slut.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Your Skin Feels Like Home

Mycroft may later consider claiming that he doesn't know how he'd ended up like this, but that wouldn't be entirely accurate, or entirely truthful, although the former concerns him more than the latter.

He might not remember every step that brought him here or be able to separate the precise moment that each piece of clothing was carefully stripped from him, only to be dropped carelessly to the floor, leaving a trail of expensive cloth from front door to bedroom, but he can't summon the appropriate dismay over those missing seconds, the tiny gaps in his memory that have been lost to the feel of soft lips and warm hands, the scent of aftershave and antiseptic, of John.

John has managed to retain some clothes, although his shoes and jumper have joined Mycroft's suit on the floor. His shirt is unbuttoned and untucked, hanging half off of one shoulder, and his unzipped jeans are still clinging to John's hips, despite Mycroft's best efforts. He looks delightfully dishevelled and a little debauched and it's a look that suits him surprisingly well.

Though he'd never show it, Mycroft's a little awkward at being naked when John's still mostly clothed, although that's definitely tempered by wanton arousal at the rub of cloth against bare skin.

John dodges Mycroft's attempt to spill him onto the bed and instead backs away, drawing Mycroft with him, distracting him with kisses and touches, until John pulls away and drops to sit in the large armchair by the dressing table. He tugs on Mycroft's hand and hips until he's straddling John's lap.

The position isn't particularly comfortable, let alone dignified, but it's remarkably easy to ignore the discomfort with John's hands cupping Mycroft's arse, squeezing and stroking, and John's kisses, deep and needy enough that Mycroft knows he isn't alone in his desire.

He hears the soft creak of the dressing table drawer opening and excitement makes his breath catch and his heart rate jump. John won't stop kissing him, though he uses the hip on Mycroft's hip to push and pull him until he's got Mycroft astride just one of John's thighs, heavy denim brushing against Mycroft's skin, John's thigh warm and solid under him. He rests his hands on John's shoulders, one bare, the other still covered by warm, soft cotton, the contrast unexpectedly erotic.

He feels John's hand move, leaving the drawer, and he fights down a shiver of anticipation. He's expecting fingers, slick and soft, but John, as so often, proves to be unexpectedly unpredictable and the first touch between Mycroft's buttocks isn't a finger, but something harder, cooler, wider. He can't hide the shiver this time as John carefully presses the slick plug into him, as always he wonders if he really wants this, uncomfortable with sense of vulnerability, with the illusion of submission and giving in. It's so much easier when they fuck, when John's as desperate and exposed as Mycroft is. But sometimes, John likes to watch, likes to see what the bliss he offers does to Mycroft. Every time, Mycroft thinks about refusing, suggesting something else. Every time, the words get caught in Mycroft's throat and he stays quiet and lets John see everything, lets him watch with a hungry gaze, eyes hot and heavy, an almost tangible touch. That look makes the embarrassment much easier to stand.

He squirms as John presses the plug in, slowly and carefully, but steadily, never pausing. The sensation isn't really pain, not yet pleasure, just intense and still a little disturbing, even now. When it's fully seated, John strokes his hands over Mycroft's buttocks, digs his fingers almost cruelly into the flesh of Mycroft's thighs, then wraps both hands around Mycroft's hips and pulls him down, at the same time as he flexes his thigh up. He does it a few more times, until Mycroft picks up the rhythm, rocking back and forward, each action moving the plug inside him, pushing it more deeply, then easing the pressure, over and over.

Mycroft knows he's flushed and sweaty, arousal and something that feels a little like shame striping his cheeks pink. His hands clench and release John's shoulders in time to his own movements, digging in hard when John randomly presses up as Mycroft rocks down, a spike of sensation from within that's almost too much. He can't hold in the noises that spill from his lips, doesn't try when John groans along with him, sounding as raw and vulnerable as Mycroft feels. He catalogues as much as he can, wanting to remember the way John sounds, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the pressure of his fingers on Mycroft's hips, the drag and rub of denim between Mycroft's thighs.

He moves faster, need over coming lingering reservations, needing more than the slow, gentle bursts of pleasure he's been getting, wanting something harder, deeper, stronger, the arousal building more quickly now. John puts a hand around the back of Mycroft's neck and pulls him down into a kiss that's teeth and spit. The change of angle shifts the plug and the need flare hot and bright in Mycroft.

John lets him pull away and sit back up, puts his hand back on Mycroft's hip to balance him as Mycroft rocks hard, sweet friction on his cock and balls as he moves forward, exquisite pressure when he moves back. John's clearly hard, and Mycroft can hear his heavy breaths and soft moans, even over the sound of his heartbeat and his own moans and gasps. Mycroft's stomach clenches with want when John finally lets go with one hand and shoves it down his own pants, stroking and squeezing his cock in rhythm with Mycroft.

Mycroft grinds back onto John's thigh, beyond shame, or caring about how he must look. He doesn't care about anything but pleasure, but chasing the orgasm that's already starting to spark through his blood.

"Fuck, Mycroft..." John says, rough and strung out.

Mycroft takes one hand off of John's shoulder, wrapping it around his own cock. John shudders under him, eyes wide and a little glazed. It doesn't take more than half a dozen strokes before Mycroft's coming, everything tightening and clenching, a fiery blaze of bliss and agony that he craves so much it scares him.

John isn't more than a minute or so behind him, trembling and moaning like he's dying.

Mycroft is sweaty and sticky and a little uncomfortable in ways both physical and mental, but he's also relaxed and sleepy, and for now, sated.


End file.
